Deadlands
by rafaell
Summary: Short Reflection on Nabreus, of the nethicite and the time ahead, with his Viera. Balthier. Fran.


_Notes: yes, Balthier with Fran is very sexy. Balthier PoV._

_--xxx---_

**Deadlands...**

* * *

--NABREUS---

_xx_

_So this was the legendary Deadlands._

Balthier smirked, looking bored. He had just finished off a pack of wild straying baknamy, having the most distance and heavy artillery at his disposal. However, from the enemies' methods of fighting, it proved that any other upcoming challenge would deem most difficult.

He lifted a palm facing up to the sky, feeling the wet touch of mist, soaking into his skin. "Ah…nice, something left over from my father's influence."

He wanted to say that with less bite, but Fran gave him that sidelong glance, catching it between understanding and pity. He never wanted any of the latter, and she knew better, after all these years; however, it was still a matter of facing up to the facts. No matter how long and how far he flew from Archades, or from where he was remembered, there would always be his father's voice, the laughter in those mischievous eyes telling him what a disappointment he was.

The smoke still clung to the open barrel of his fomalhaut, _or was it the mist around here?_ He looked over at Fran, and she was already walking away – to join the others. Their company had been eager for some reprieve, finding the thieves of this section too tricky, and he wondered how they managed to acquire such great powers beyond all other common foe on Ivalice. And the answer was right in front of him. He followed her, his eyes straying over to the firm bottom of his partner, and smiled ruefully. He wished he had some time to spend with her, give her a moment's peace without the company of such royalty, seasoned knights, or even the bright faces eager for a bit of sky pirating knowledge.

A twig snapped, or something close to it from his left and he stopped, bringing his weapon to ready. Whatever it was, it had disappeared back into the folding mist.

_Gods blood_, he couldn't be sure why they wanted to pursue this route, but there wasn't a sky above from where he stood. Leisure only took him after the silence too long greeted him.

It looked every inch the pathetic wasteland. Bits of life still clung to marshes along the weathered road, and puddles appeared harmless, bearing no ill-favours.

He watched the group disperse, silently accessing any hidden enemies. He cracked his neck, feeling lazy, and warded off the tug of sleep. It was rather dull looking, this Deadlands, despite what occurred two years since.

With a bit of stretching, he managed to refill the ammo in his gun, closing an eye to peek through the hole. Snapping it shut, his eyes went back to the route Basch was taking.

The Knight appeared as if he wanted to take a different route all together; while Vaan, whose agitation was little more than youthful enthusiasm wanted to push his new friends over to where the mist thickened.

He didn't know when, because she moved cat-like, so feline that he couldn't help but think : _very seductive_. But she was beside him, her arms folded, the heel of her shoe tipping against the gravel roughened road. There was uneasiness in her stature. She told him that the foes around here weren't going to be very accommodating. He could detect a bit of playful cynicism behind the tone.

And a lazy grin formed, making him too charming for his own good.

Balthier placed a hand on hip, his gun steady on his shoulder. The wind was cool, but the mist stilled, as if it knew the presence of foreigners and waited. He didn't want to say too much, leaving it up to the leaders of the group and currently, that was Ashe and her Dalmascan Knight. She was being persuaded to take the safe route.

While an argument could be heard, above the pushed-down noiseless clouds, white and submissive along their path, he found a wall with bits of rock and jutting weeds. There were a couple of uneven round boulders-- attached to the scabrous wall-- which could provide a satisfactory seat for the meantime. The noisy din of discussion between Vaan, Basch, Ashe, and a little mewling from Penelo made him think that it would be best to take an entirely different route with his partner.

He slumped against the wall, feet propped less elegantly, and the boots were scraped from the wear and tear of running and warring.

Balthier watched through half closed eyes --weary from the travel --the impetuous nature of his ladyship's agitation. The light shining in her eyes waned under the mist-filled atmosphere, heavy with residual nethicite.

A soft wind shifted, mobilizing the cloudy atmosphere, caressing the side of his cheek. He looked over at Fran; his Viera's white shock of hair looked wet under the mist.

He shouldn't, but he always did: his eyes scanned the way her body leaned against one leg, generous hip out.

"Fran."

It was no more than a whisper, intentional, so as to not alert the others.

She gave him one of those looks. The kind that made most men crumble.

As always, he half-grinned, eyes half closed, almost playful, and his hand patted the seat next to him on that rock.

And she raised one smooth brow at him.

He could swear he saw a smile before she took a step.

* * *

---xx---


End file.
